


blade of silver, forge of blue

by MikkiOfTheAnbu



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And the quest to unlearn problematic behaviors, Blue Spirit Zuko (Avatar), Hurt/Comfort, Sailormoon-esque Spirit Transformations, Spirit World, Spirits, The Gaang being the Gaang, Trauma, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko accidentally starts a religion, Zuko and Yue are bros, Zuko-becomes-the-Blue-Spirit AU, he's not coping well, will add tags as they apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikkiOfTheAnbu/pseuds/MikkiOfTheAnbu
Summary: “Blessed Spirit, we thank you for the gift of this child’s life. We are forever in your debt.” The whole village is kneeling now, even the tiniest toddlers flopped down on their stomachs doing their best approximation of a bow. “Please, won’t you give us a name to call you? We would like to properly express our gratitude.”Oh.Well shit.(Where Zuko saves a little Earth Kingdom girl from drowning, the villagers think he's a Spirit, build him a shrine, and long story short, a fake story about the Blue Spirit who dances with dragons suddenly becomes very real.)
Relationships: Aang & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar), Yue & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & The Spirits
Comments: 978
Kudos: 5529
Collections: An Assortment of Damn Good Fics, AtLA <25k fics to read, Behold the Sacred Texts, Best of Avatar: The Last Airbender, Fics that I want to read once they are complete, I think of you as my own, RaeLynn's Epic Rec List, The Best of Zuko, Top 10%, best of avatar, deific, iroh & zuko fics, zuko best boi





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! So, Avatar: the last Airbender is amazing, and this is the fic I wanted to write for it! I hope you enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave some kudos or a comment telling me what you think!
> 
> \- Mikki

Zuko saves the life of a little Earth Kingdom girl.

He doesn’t mean to. It just sort of... happens.

It’s the cold and soggy morning after Zuko has freed the Avatar, and the river he’s following is wide and swollen with ice melt. The morning sun dyes the rapids white and gold, and Zuko’s hoping it’ll lead him back to the harbor where the  _ Wani  _ and its crew are docked, or at least somewhere close to it. 

Zuko has no reference for exactly how far inland he’s been taken. It’s funny how waking up in the middle of the woods after being maybe-kidnapped by your child enemy tends to be disorienting, but the map he has in his head puts him somewhere to the west of the Stronghold, in territory that is a loose patchwork of Earth and Fire that so far no one has wasted bodies trying to dominate.

He figures the best thing he can do is follow the swoop of the river to the sea, and hope that no one is missing him too badly. 

The crew he’s not too worried about. They mostly keep to their business and leave him to his. 

Uncle though…

Knowing Uncle, he’s probably already figured out where Zuko’s gone and what he’s been up to - they were together when they got the missive about the Avatar’s capture - and is now nervously fretting about the ship waiting for either his nephew’s triumphant return or for Zhao to show up and drop off his arrow-ridden corpse. 

When he gets back he’s getting the lecture of a lifetime, but he’s weirdly looking forward to it (there will probably be yelling, his family is a lot of things but quiet is not one of them) because at least when Uncle does it, he knows it comes from a place of worry. 

Of genuine… care. 

(Zuko doesn’t think  _ love _ because that word has never meant anything to him that doesn't also equal  _ pain. _ ) 

Zuko travels briskly, but the soreness in his limbs from last night’s “activities” makes him slower than he’d like. His eyes throb with exhaustion, so he crouches by the river’s edge to drink and splash his face with cold water, which helps a little. 

Zuko walks for another hour or so, during which time he weighs the pros and cons of finding some tree or cave in which to quietly pass the fuck out, when he catches the acrid smell of woodsmoke on the breeze. He walks a little further, and he realizes that the river has led him to the outskirts of an Earth Kingdom village, a tiny one, maybe a dozen or so houses all clustered together and hidden among the trees. 

It’s still early, but people are already awake and milling about. Adults wander from house to house exchanging goods and chatting with neighbors. Zuko’s too far away to hear words, but their expressions are warm. A few children holding pails and baskets yawn their way through early-morning chores, and pig-chickens honk and bray around their feet. Agni’s light burns through the mist, giving everything a soft glow. 

It looks… peaceful. 

It makes Zuko’s stomach turn.

(Words from a lifetime ago rise up quicker than Zuko can squash them -  _ maybe you can find a nice Earth Kingdom family to adopt you.  _

He stands there in the shadows, heart beating like a war drum, and watches these strangers, these  _ peasants,  _ go about their day like the world is fine and everything is normal, and he aches and aches with the phantom feeling of  _ loss _ .) 

Zuko forces himself to look away. This village will probably be burnt to ashes before long, the tide of the war has turned vicious like that. All the tiny homes will have vanished, all the people either dead or driven away. His father isn’t interested in anything other than complete submission from the Earth.

Bitterness blooms on the back of Zuko’s tongue and he swallows it down with the ease of long practice. He has to be a prince now. He can be human later. 

A twig snaps somewhere to Zuko’s left and his hands fly to his swords, bracing for an attack. When none comes, he ducks behind the nearest tree, swinging himself up onto a low-hanging branch, and peers around the trunk seeking the source of the sound. 

A little girl carrying a basket full of forest greens strolls right underneath his hiding spot, oblivious to his presence. She’s dressed warmly in soft Earth Kingdom colors, and hums a simple tune to herself as her breath turns to mist in the air. 

Zuko lets some of the tension leave him, feeling weirdly embarrassed. Azula would be on the floor cackling if she could see him now. The great Prince Zuko, frightened of a child. 

He waits for her to step onto the wooden bridge that connects Zuko’s side of the river to the village before he hops soundlessly down from his perch to continue his journey. 

He needs to pick up the pace. The Yuyan are definitely tracking him, and he doesn’t even want to  _ think _ about what Zhao will do to him if he’s captured. It’ll hurt, he’s bone-weary and dead on his feet, but the sooner he gets back to the ship, the better. Plus the sooner he rests, the sooner he can banish the searing images of smiling villagers and humming girls from his thoughts and get back to focusing on the mission. 

_ His  _ mission. 

The Avatar. 

Zuko puts his back to the village, but before he can take even a single step, a high-pitched scream splits the air, making him freeze. He turns. 

The little girl is standing in the middle of the bridge, and now that he’s looking Zuko sees it’s less of a bridge and more of a log jam repurposed for transportation. The river bites and tears at the wood, Zuko can see places where chunks are missing and the logs are barely holding together. 

The scene unfolds before him like a nightmare. The ancient bridge makes a noise like a death knell and Zuko can only watch as the foundations crack and split \- 

As wood splinters and  _ shatters _ \- 

And suddenly the bridge is collapsing, plunging the girl and her basket down down  _ down _ into the waiting maw of the river - 

\- and Zuko’s feet are moving before his head even knows what’s happening. 

Zuko drops his swords, not even looking to see where they land, and sprints to the river bank with all his speed and then  _ dives _ . The river is much, much deeper than it looks and cold as ice. Zuko’s head breaks the surface and he swims with all his strength to the spot where he saw the girl go under. 

She hasn’t come up for air. Zuko feels fear like a vice around his heart. He takes a breath, feels the flames lick at his lungs, giving him a burst of power, then dips below the rapids and opens his eyes to  _ see _ . 

It’s chaos. Debris from the bridge tears at his clothes, the water stings his eyes, but he forces them to stay open. He searches frantically, long seconds passing where all he can see are broken logs and bubbles _.  _ He almost gives up hope when -  _ there, _ in the dim light, a pale hand reaches out, a small body thrashes and kicks as the weight of the water drags her down. 

Zuko’s lungs are screaming, but they were trained for this, to hold his breath and mold it to his will. He dives once more, reaching half-blind into the murky water, until his hand finally brushes against another. Zuko grabs onto the child’s wrist and  _ pulls,  _ kicking out with his legs to try and drag them both to the surface. 

But the weight of both his clothes and the girl’s are too much, his legs are too tired. He feels himself weakening as the cold saps all the energy from his body and his inner fire flickers and whines at the lack of breath. 

For a brief, terrifying moment, Zuko is sure that he’s about to die, that his body will float, unremarkable, at the bottom of a random Earth Kingdom river until his bones are dust. He will forever be the banished prince. The unwanted son. The failure, who couldn’t even save a little girl. 

And worst of all, Uncle will mourn him in that quiet way of his, eyes rusted red and locked on the horizon, always searching for another foolish child who never came home.

Zuko drifts.

And then he remembers -- 

_ Never give up without a fight.  _

Fire roars to life in Zuko’s chest, and he focuses all his chi into the soles of his feet, unable to make a flame but producing searing  _ heat _ . Water turns to steam in an instant, and he and his cargo go blasting to the surface with a mighty  _ whoosh.  _

Two heads gasp for breath the second they’re free of the undertoe’s grasp, and Zuko steadies his flame by taking careful breaths of crisp, biting air in order to keep them afloat. 

The little girl coughs up a lake’s worth of water and clutches him desperately, and it’s a fight to keep the currents from ripping her away from him again. She’s freezing, Zuko can feel her teeth chattering against his collarbone, but she’s alive. She’s  _ alive.  _ He lets more warmth seep into his limbs from his core, and feels her curl into him, chasing the heat. 

A woman is shouting from the shore, and Zuko maneuvers them so he can paddle with one arm and hold the girl tight with the other. The rapids are fierce and his aching limbs cry out in agony, but Zuko is strong, and with a little more help from his bending they’re able to cut through the water with little resistance, slowly but surely making their way back to the riverbank.

A crowd of villagers has gathered, drawn by the commotion. 

As soon as they’re close the woman - the girl’s mother? - is rushing into the shallows to sweep the girl out of Zuko’s grasp and up into her arms. The girl is crying and the woman is crying, and around them thirty or so frozen Earth peasant faces stare at Zuko with a mixture of awe and  _ fear _ . 

It’s then that he realizes that he’s still wearing the mask of the Blue Spirit, freshly dented from the tip of a Yuyan arrow. It’s honestly not the easiest thing to breathe in, and definitely not his first choice for diving head-first into the raging waters of an ice cold river to save a drowning child. 

But needs must. And he’s not about to give himself away to a bunch of commoners when he’s half-drowned and shivering. He keeps the mask on. 

There’s steam rising off of him. He can see it in the air, rings of vapor coiling around his arms and legs as his bending tries to get him warm again. Zuko slowly pulls himself from the river, taking a brief moment to check himself for injuries and broken bones, then leaps to his feet and makes to dash back to the safety of the trees, not waiting for the first terrified cry of  _ oh shit, firebender.  _ He makes it two steps before a hand darts out and grabs the sleeve of his gi. 

Zuko manages to stop himself from breaking the wrist that belongs to the hand but only just, and whips around to see who would  _ dare _ to touch him and is surprised to find the girl’s mother. 

“Wait.” She sobs, falling to her knees while keeping her daughter in the fierce cradle of her arms. “Wait. Please. You saved Duri - you saved my daughter. How can I ever repay you?” 

_Let me leave_. Zuko thinks. Everybody is staring at him, staring at his mask. He hates it, being the center of attention like this. It makes his scar tingle and itch even though he knows it's hidden. 

He pulls his sleeve away and turns to face the woman fully. He doesn’t know what to say, is he supposed to say something? Something like “it’s no big deal, I do death defying stunts every day and twice on Sunday, your kid isn’t special.” 

The woman sees his hesitation and she repeats, in a louder voice like he didn’t hear her the first time: “ _ Please _ . How can I repay you?” 

(Something prickles at the back of Zuko’s senses, like words shouted from far away but barely heard. There is more meaning to those words than he knows how to interpret, and he shivers, but not from the cold.)

Agni, this is torture. 

These people are the  _ enemy.  _ Who cares if he saved one of their children, it was a moment of weakness, a mistake brought about by exhaustion and  _ sentiment  _ and other unforgivable things. Every instinct in him screams at him to run, but the woman is still waiting for an answer. Her gaze pins him like nothing else ever has, and he scrambles for a reply, something that will set him free. 

His eye catches on a basket of blue something-berries, then on a blue teacup in the window of the nearest house - and the request comes into his mind with the quickness of lightning and sticks there, a burnt-in afterimage. 

“Blue.” Zuko says into the heavy silence. “Bring me something blue.” The villagers flinch at his voice. Zuko doesn’t blame them, his words scrape out of him like a blade from a sheath, deep and dangerous even to his own ear and a half. 

The woman recovers the fastest, says “As you wish,” with the reverence of a vassal to a lord, and then  _ bows _ , what in Agni’s many hells, and then the village is a rush of movement as people dart back towards their homes, presumably to look for something blue to satisfy Zuko’s weird and random request. 

Internally, Zuko cheers, and fully intends to use the distraction to make his escape, when he’s stopped again by a tug on his pants. 

He looks down and the girl he saved is staring up at him with enormous green eyes, a look of chubby cheeked seriousness on her tiny face that Zuko can’t help but find adorable. 

“Is this okay?” She asks, and holds out her hand for Zuko’s inspection. A blue stone on a leather cord sits nestled in her palm. Zuko blinks, then takes it with careful fingers and holds it up to the light. It’s nothing special - just a simple fragment of blue quartz, the same type and size that can be found abundantly in every harbor market and Earth Kingdom port Zuko’s ever been to. 

But somehow, this little stone  _ shines,  _ more beautiful and more precious than the most skillfully hewn court sapphire. 

Zuko folds it into his grip and kneels down. 

“This is a very special thing you have.” He says softly. Even though she can’t see it, he smiles because it feels like he should. Children deserve smiles. 

The girl nods. “It’s my treasure!” 

“Treasure, huh? It’s very pretty.”

“My Daddy gave it to me before he had to go be a soldier.” 

Zuko closes his eyes and  _ breathes,  _ accepting this for all that it is. 

“I see.” He says softly. “It must mean a lot to you, then. Are you sure you want to give it to me?” 

“Yeah.” She says seriously. “You saved me, and it’s blue like you wanted!”

_ She’s got you there,  _ he thinks. 

“Then I promise I’ll take good care of it.” Zuko takes the pendant and slips it over his mask so it rests against his collar. The stone is warm. It feels like having a second heartbeat thrumming in time with his own.

(Zuko doesn’t know it yet, but this is the moment when everything  _ shifts  _ \- when forces more ancient than bending itself begin take hold, seeping into the essence of the little Fireling in the Blue Mask.)

The girl’s face opens into a smile like the sun and she throws her arms around Zuko’s neck and holds onto him like he’ll disappear if she doesn’t - and Zuko is frozen.

He can’t remember the last time someone hugged him. 

Mom used to hug him all the time, before.... 

Well. 

_ Before _ . 

But that was a long time ago.

Carefully, as gently as if he were handling the most breakable glass ornament, Zuko folds his arms around Duri and holds her back. 

“You’re so warm.” Duri rubs her cheek against Zuko’s shoulder and he tries not to wince. 

“Thank you.”

“Hey, mister, are you a Spirit?” 

Zuko hums. He feels… playful. He reaches out to tug on Duri’s braid, a little matted from her dip in the river, and it makes her giggle. The world has narrowed to just him and this bright little creature. 

“Do I look like a Spirit?” 

“Yes!” 

“ _ Duri!”  _ A shout interrupts them. An old man comes hobbling over, a fearful pinch around his mouth. He drops to his knees and rests his head against the dirt. “Forgive her, Spirit, she’s just a child, she doesn’t know what she’s doing!” 

Behind his mask, Zuko blinks.

_ Spirit?  _

“Grandpa, look!” Duri pulls back and smiles at the old man. She points to her pendant around Zuko’s neck. “He took my offering!” 

The old man’s face pales as his gaze lands on the pendant. 

“Oma and Shu have mercy,” he breathes. 

Zuko feels like he’s missing something. 

The old man throws himself down with renewed vigor. “Please, Spirit!” He cries. “Do not take her from us! I know not what vows she has made to you, or what payment you have accepted, but please, I beg of you, she’s my granddaughter, my only granddaughter, do not take her away!” 

Zuko frowns. “Wait, I’m not --” 

“We have other offerings!” The old man cuts him off. “We have livestock - and, and barrels of sweetwine - take as many as you like! Anything but Duri!” 

Zuko’s starting to freak out a little now. “I wasn’t going to - I don’t  _ need --”  _

“Father, please.” Duri’s mother is back, along with some other villagers, holding a swath of bright blue cloth in her arms. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Our guest hardly seems like the child-thieving type.” She lays a hand on the old man’s back and slowly helps him to his feet. She turns to Zuko and smiles. “Are you, Master Spirit?” 

Zuko slowly shakes his head. Thinks -  _ Spirit? What Spirit? Who are you calling a Spirit?  _

The woman’s eyes twinkle. “I thought not.” She says. “I’ve prepared an offering of blue, just like you requested, but it looks like my daughter beat me to it.” She nods to the stone around Zuko’s neck. 

“Mama!” Duri runs over and grabs onto her mother’s skirt. “He likes it!” She says “He likes my offering!” 

“Duri,” the woman chides softly. “You’re being rude, love. Master Spirit has done a very kind thing for you. We need to thank him properly, don’t you think? And then let him be on his way.” 

She takes her daughter and shows her how to kneel, how to position her hands and how to bow so that her head touches the earth. Then she does the same, addressing Zuko with something disturbingly like reverence in her tone. 

“Blessed Spirit, we thank you for the gift of this child’s life. We are forever in your debt.” The whole village is kneeling now, even the tiniest toddlers flopped down on their stomachs doing their best approximation of a bow. “Please, won’t you give us a name to call you? We would like to properly express our gratitude.” 

Oh.

Well  _ shit.  _

Now, Zuko isn’t the most pious person in the world. He’s always hated Fire Temple school and the Sages that made him say his prayers and memorize scripture till he was blue in the face, but even  _ he _ knows that you don’t fuck around with the Other World. The Spirits are ancient and powerful, and to take the Name of one is a terrible sin. 

_ Respect the Spirits, and they will respect you.  _ It was one of the first lessons Uncle ever taught him.

And now, somehow, he was fucking it up without even trying. 

Zuko tries not to panic, fails, then tries to think of something to say to the woman and the villagers because of course he can’t say “I’m not a Spirit, I’m just Zuko, Prince of the Fire Nation and your enemy in every possible way” - and he can’t given them an actual Name because that was just asking to get cursed.

And yet. 

The kneeling villagers look up at him with eyes that cut. They see him at the crossroads of what a Spirit can be - an enemy or a friend, a guardian or a demon. They are waiting to see what he will choose to be in that moment. 

They’re afraid. 

A strange energy fills the air, and the skin on Zuko’s arms erupts in gooseflesh. Zuko doesn’t know where he gets the courage to finally speak, but speak he does, and his words come out with a strength and pride he hasn’t felt since he sailed away from Caldera three years ago. 

“I have no Name.” Zuko says. “Call me what you like. The debt is paid, the girl’s life is now yours.”

He speaks like a Spirit would speak. With power and purpose and not a hint of doubt. And it works. A tangible relief seeps into the atmosphere and Zuko knows he’s done the right thing. 

This time, when he turns to leave, no one tries to stop him, no one calls out after him or grabs his clothes. Duri climbs to her feet and Zuko presses a coal-warm hand to her head as he passes. He hears her sniffle, and he meets her tearful gaze with the warmest look he can muster without a face. 

“Do you have to go?” Duri whispers.

“Yes.” 

“Will you come back?” 

Zuko hesitates. He looks over the gathered villagers, looks back to Duri and her earnest face. 

“Maybe someday.” 

“...Okay.” 

“Don’t be sad. We’ll see each other again.” 

“You promise?” 

Zuko leans down and touches the lips of his mask to the crown of Duri’s head, the same way Lu Ten used to do for him when he was small and scared after a nightmare. 

(He feels her hair on his lips, soft like turtleduck down, like the mask isn’t even there at all, like there is no line between where his skin ends and the mask begins - ) 

“On my honor.” 

He looks at her, looks at the villagers, takes in their simple homes and their simple lives, the quiet beauty of it all, and thinks  _ I don’t want them to die. I don’t want them to  _ burn. It’s a treasonous thought, and it knocks the breath from him. But he can’t take it back. He won’t.

When he passes under the gateway that marks the entrance to the village, Zuko stops. He splays his fingers across the wood and calls fire to his palm, pressing a burning handprint into the pillar while thinking  _ safe safe keep them  _ safe _.  _

When he’s done, the blackened image of his touch is left, and it feels  _ right _ . He hopes it is enough, that whatever energy he has poured into this task will keep this bright village in the woods from harm when he cannot. 

He whispers, loud as thunder, quiet as prayer - 

“Spirits bless you and keep you, Biyu village.” 

And then he’s gone.

* * *

Iroh is not a man who panics.

In court, panic is a sign of weakness. On the battlefield, panic is what gets you killed.

It is for these reasons and many others that Iroh stays calm when Zuko does not join him for morning meditation on the deck of the Wani. 

He is calm when he knocks on Zuko’s door and discovers his nephew’s empty bed. 

He is calm when he notices that a certain pair of “decorative” dao blades are missing from their place on the wall. 

He is calm when he tells the cook to wrap Zuko’s breakfast up for later, that his nephew is “just sleeping in, don’t worry, a man needs his rest.” 

He is very much NOT calm when Zuko comes stumbling up onto the deck at midday in his plainclothes (portholes, he must have used the portholes, he’s too skinny if he’s able to use the portholes without getting stuck), limping and looking like he’d spent the night wrestling with a platypus bear.

Iroh will not be proud of this later, but he takes one look at Zuko and can’t stop himself from yelling: “What in the name of Agni and all His Fire have you done to yourself!?” 

And his nephew flinches, like he always does when someone raises their voice, instinctual like he can’t help it. Iroh strides forward and grabs Zuko’s arm, dragging him back down to his own quarters so they can have this conversation away from prying eyes. 

(Not that he doesn’t trust the crew with his life, he does. But there are very few people that he trusts with  _ Zuko _ , himself included.) 

Iroh makes Zuko sit on the bed. He hasn’t said anything yet, simply followed Iroh down with barely a tug of resistance, which is more worrying than both the massive bruise on his temple and the obvious way he’s favoring his ribs combined. His eyes are wide and unfocused where they rest on the floor. 

“Zuko?” Iroh says softly. He reaches out and lays a gentle hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Nephew?” 

Zuko’s head snaps up and he stares at Iroh like he’s just noticed he’s there. 

“Uncle?” He sounds so young. 

“ _ Zuko _ .” And oh, Iroh wants to do something foolish like give the boy a hug. He doesn’t, and secretly hates himself for it, but he knows that gestures of kindness are beyond his nephew now, and will only hurt where once they were meant to soothe. 

The child he used to hold in his arms when he was small was burned to death by his father’s own hand, and Iroh grieves for him every day. “You are hurt. You should let the ship’s doctor take a look at you.”

“...I’m just tired.”

“Zuko.” 

“I’m fine, Uncle, I don’t need a doctor.”

“You are not fine!” The shout surprises both of them. Zuko pulls away from him and looks like he’s trying very hard not to cry. Iroh kicks himself and tries again. 

“Oh my nephew,” He says, softly, like he’s soothing an animal. “What has happened?”  _ What have you done?  _

“...I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Iroh sighs. He doesn’t know what else he expected. 

“That is your right.” He relents. “However, I can see that you are injured. I suggest you take the day off. Catch up your rest, nephew, I’m sure you need it.” 

He’s expecting shouting, more resistance, for the fuse to blow and the angry protests to come spilling out like blood between them. But they never do. Instead, Prince Zuko sits quietly on Iroh’s bed and nods his head yes.

Iroh needs tea, s _ trong _ tea, to deal with… whatever this is. 

He rises to leave, maybe a bit of space will help his nephew clear his head, to come back to himself. Iroh admits that this is unfamiliar territory for him. He’s used to a Zuko who knows exactly what he needs, who fights and shouts and rages at the world and tries so hard to be like the father he loves but who never loved him. 

(Is it something to do with the Avatar? Probably. That’s what everything seems to be about nowadays. Agni, Iroh loves his nephew, but he has always been a very single-minded child.)

Iroh has his hand upon the iron latch of the door when Zuko calls to him: “Are you angry?” 

Iroh stops dead. 

_ What in Agni’s many Hells?  _

He turns to Zuko, and he’s sure his face is full of the shock and worry he isn’t quite able to hide, and he startles at the sheer vulnerability on his nephew’s face. “Of course not.” Iroh says honestly. “I am simply concerned for you, but that is not a new feeling, trust me.” He tries to joke and gets a whisper-light snort for his trouble. 

“And,” Iroh continues. “I trust that you will come to me when you are ready to say what needs to be said. I do not begrudge you your secrets nephew, I only hope that you know that I am here for you, whatever you need.” 

Zuko doesn’t smile, but his face softens in a way it rarely does. Iroh takes this for the miracle that it is and doesn’t push his luck. 

“I’ll go make us a nice pot of ginseng, shall I?” Iroh says with a smile. “And have someone bring you breakfast. I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.” Zuko nods and goes back to staring at nothing.

Iroh does not panic. 

Even though he very much wants to. 

(break)

(The path back to the Wani is cloudy in Zuko’s memory. He feels… detached. Sort of see-through and sleepy. He sees himself from the outside, watches as he goes to retrieve his dao, and then treks the untold miles downriver until he comes upon the port where his ship is waiting. 

There’s something off about that, but he doesn’t know what. 

He knows this is the right port - they docked here last night, he remembers the little bao shop Uncle was so excited about, and the angry merchant brothers who tried to sell them ‘genuine Fire Nation surplus’ - but how did he get here so fast? Zuko thought he still had hours and hours left to travel, thought he wouldn’t make it back home until nightfall at least. 

And yet he’s here, standing on deck in his comfy clothes - when did he change? Where is his mask? his swords? He feels naked without them - and then Uncle is holding his arm and sitting him down and making him eat, asking him questions that he doesn’t want to answer -  _ can’t answer _

And thinking really hurts his brain right now, so he lets his thoughts and worries spiral into the ether and doesn’t go looking for them. Just lets himself feel dizzy and intangible and chalks it all up to being really fucking tired.

He doesn’t see the shadows that follow his every move, the sharp teeth and excited smiles that flash at him from the space-in-between.

He doesn’t notice as the Other World begins to  _ move _ .) 

* * *

Chuanli began the morning thinking that he had lost his granddaughter to the river. 

After losing his sons to the war, he’d thought the gods had had their fill of tormenting him, but evidently he was wrong. He would remember Duri’s terrified scream until the day he died, the way his heart stopped with grief and horror. 

He didn’t see the bridge collapse or watch her fall, but he knew that she had, the same way he knew the sand from the shale, the bedrock from the soil. The Earth had never lied to him, and it cried out with panic. 

“DURI!” His daughter-in-law screamed. Two men grabbed her arms, stopping her from throwing herself into the river after her child. She thrashed like a wild thing. “Someone, my daughter, PLEASE --!” 

The morning stillness shattered and people came running, but there was barely time for a proper panic to build amongst those on the shore, let alone a rescue, before the river was parting and two heads appeared at the surface. 

One was Duri, Spirits be praised, and just the sight of her made Chaunli’s knees go weak with relief, but the other was… Well, Chuanli wasn’t quite sure. 

It became clear as the pair approached the shore, gliding with an unnatural ease that set Chuanli’s teeth on edge, like the water wasn’t even a factor, that the one who had saved his grandchild was not human. 

The Spirit, for what else could it be, this being that had wrestled back the rage of the river and taken a meal from its jaws, was dressed in black from head to foot, and wore on its face the visage of a snarling blue devil. 

It’s entire form was… glowing, the air around it shimmering and shifting like the light couldn’t decide where to settle on its body. The Earth sang. 

The Spirit released Duri back to the arms of her mother, and because she had been taught well, his daughter-in-law asked what it wanted as payment for its act of kindness. The Spirits always demanded payment. 

It asked for something… blue. 

Strange, but no one was about to question the desires of Duri’s savior, and so they all set about procuring an offering. Chaunli had even gone to fetch his favorite teacup, the one his wife had teased him for buying on a sunny day at the market some 50 years ago, and when he returned, his granddaughter was in the arms of the Spirit. 

Fear gripped him, and for a moment he was sure his precious Duri was about to be Taken, as that was what happened when the Spirits took a liking to people and things. Chuanli dropped to his knees and pleaded with the Spirit, begging it to take something else,  _ anything else _ . 

But then the Spirit pulled back, and oh, around its neck hung the blue quartz pendant Du-Yi had given his daughter the day before he was called to the front. 

And Chaunli understood. 

That morning, all of Biyu knelt before the Spirit in gratitude, and his daughter-in-law asked for it’s blessed name, for how could you pay proper tribute to a Spirit without it’s name on your tongue? 

When the Spirit spoke, it did so with a voice that sent the air vibrating with  _ knowing,  _ and it said that the debt was paid. It gave no Name, but the glint of the sun off its mask cast an unmistakable shadow of  _ blue,  _ and in his heart Chaunli knew what words to speak, to whom to send his prayer.  __

When the Spirit left, it looked down on little Duri with kindness and warmth, and left a blessing in her hair. And then, demanding neither payment nor rites, left yet  _ another _ blessing at the gateway to the village. 

Chaunli could hardly believe it. 

Since he was a child, he had always been taught the fickleness of the Spirits, how they acted according to their whims with little care for the lives of humans. They were cruel, even if they didn’t mean to be. It was in their nature. 

There was none of that in this Spirit. And when it finally departed, the village felt a bit… cold. Like they had been standing in a sunbeam and moved to a place of shadow. Duri cried, hiding her face in her mother’s skirt, who shushed her gently and told her that Spirits always kept their promises, that one day, the Blue Spirit would return. 

Chuanli wasn’t sure if the thing he was feeling was sorrow or joy. 

A day later, the Fire Nation came and broke down his door. They told him they were looking for a fugitive - a man in a blue mask who carried duel swords and who freed the Avatar in the dead of night from a stronghold famed for its impregnability. 

Chuanli knew exactly who they were looking for. 

When they questioned him, shooting sparks at his feet and knocking over all the furniture in his home, he held his tongue, as did every man woman and child in Biyu, because they were grateful, and loyal, and they knew better than to squander a blessing, such a rare thing is this time of unending war. They didn’t cooperate, and this infuriated the soldiers, but especially one soldier in particular. 

He was a tall man with a scowl for a mouth and long sideburns down the sides of his face. He gathered the villagers in the square and shouted at them, demanding they tell him what they knew. 

When no one came forward, the soldier grabbed a boy from the crowd and held a flame to his face, threatening to burn him if no one stepped forward to give him the information he desired. There was a collective holding of breath, the boy’s eyes were large and terrified, and Chuanli was sure he was about to witness yet another tragedy -- 

And then the soldier’s flame went dark. A shadow fell over the entire village, and the soldier’s eyes, so fierce and full of rage only a moment ago, turned glassy and unfocused. He let the boy slip from his hold back into the crowd and just stood there, silent as a doll. 

A long moment passed, and then the soldier turned to his men and ordered them to retreat. 

“He’s not here.” He said, voice oddly flat. “Move out.”

Another soldier startled at the sudden change in his superior’s mood. 

“But sir,” he protested. “We still haven’t done a thorough --” 

“I said move out!” 

And there was no arguing with the man after that. The Fire soldiers filed out of the village with a mixture of bafflement and a little fear. They, too, felt the shadow fall, protective in one way and menacing in another. 

That day, a small shrine was built in the Earth Kingdom village of Biyu. The image of a Spirit, carved with careful hands and painted white and blue, rested within the shrine, and the villagers placed before it offerings of bluequat berries and porcelain and quartz -- every item its own shade of blue. 

And every day after that, a little girl tended to the shrine and sent its master her prayers, and life went on.

Biyu and its people were the first to know and worship the Blue Spirit, but they were not the last. 

(In the middle of the sea, a prince tastes berries on his tongue and doesn’t know why. Wherever he goes, the air is perfumed with incense, sweet and heavy and unlike anything he has ever smelled. He feels… safe. Feels strong and fierce and loved.

It’s a new feeling.

He wears the little stone around his neck under his armour and never ever takes it off.)

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Wow. You guys had no right to go as hard as you did for the first chapter. I honestly intended this to be a one-shot, but after all the feedback I got I decided to go ahead and make it into a full-fledged fic! Writing this chapter was a bear and a half, but I'm pretty happy with it, and I hope you guys are too! Thanks to everyone who commented on/kudosed the last chapter, you guys are honestly the best and I love each and every one of you. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy angst, because Zuko is an angsty boy. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and my tentative update schedule is every Monday but who knows what life has in store. 
> 
> \- Mikki

_ In his dreams, Zuko is a bird, and he flies on blue wings over a vast wasteland.  _

_ Looking down, the ground is scorched and black. He looks for a tree, a shrub, anything to land on, but finds there are none.  _

_ He knows, somehow, that nothing grows here or will ever grow again, and Zuko’s breast fills with exquisite sorrow. He keens at the loss.  _

_ Fire.  _

_ Fire did this.  _

_ It razed the Earth and dried up the Water and filled the Air with poison, and now that there is nothing left to burn, the Fire has died as well. Zuko is alone in a ruined world, and it feels like his fault.  _

_ The sun is hot on his back, the warmth like soothing fingers through his feathers. Zuko knows their touch, he has known it his whole life. Agni is here. Agni is with him. The Great Spirit flies by his side above this tragedy, and Zuko wants to call out to Him, to join Him in the Sky Above the Sky.  _

_ But he can’t. His wings are too small, his heart too heavy. Zuko’s spirit is still tethered to the ground, to this land destroyed by Fire, and the voices of its ghosts rise up to meet him -  _

_ (do you think we could’ve been friends?)  _

_ (- love you. Everything I have ever done -)  _

_ ( - respect, and suffering will be your teacher)  _

_ (exile, my nephew is more honorable -)  _

_ (hey, mister, are you a Spirit?) _

_ They’re loud, so loud, and Zuko can’t think, can’t cry out except to say I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so  _ so sorry _ \-  _

_ And then Agni is there, with a soft touch and a voice like summer that seeps into his very soul and makes him feel giddy and light.  _

Peace, Little Flame,  _ He says. _ Soon you will understand, soon you will  _ Know _ . __

_ And Zuko thinks -  _ Know what _?  _ What am I supposed to know _?  _

_ But Agni has already left him and his wings are growing tired. They cramp and crumble and his feathers start to fall off one by one, little blue pieces fluttering behind him on the sour wind.  _

_ It hurts to keep flying, it hurts so much but Zuko doesn’t want to fall, he doesn’t want to  _ die _ \-  _

_ His wings vanish.  _

_ He cries out -  _

_ He falls. _

* * *

Zuko jolts into consciousness, heart pounding. 

His limbs are a tangle of red sheets and sweaty skin, and his breath punches out of him fast and shallow. He’s still in Uncle’s room, the remains of the porridge he was forced to eat on the bedside table along with some long-cold tea in Uncle’s favorite cup. 

He can’t tell if it’s day or night, Uncle’s room has no windows, and his sun-sense is screwed to hell after having slept for Agni knows how long. 

He’s also alone, which means he’s free to scrub a hand over his eyes, and if a tear or two slips out then, well, that’s between him and Agni and exactly no one else. 

Zuko takes a breath. 

He holds it the way Uncle showed him how to do when he was in pain and dying and half his vision was lost to him forever, and then lets it out as slowly as he can manage. 

(In two three, out two three, that’s it Zuko just like that you’re doing so well -)

It works, and his whole body sags into the mattress. 

Zuko lies there in the semi-darkness and tries to chase the fading tail of his dream, tries to remember what he was told, what he was  _ shown, _ but it slips through his memory like water and all he’s left with is a crippling sadness and deep-seated sense of  _ wrong. _

He’s so tired, in a bone-deep way he’s never been before, and it would be so easy to close his eyes and relax into the gentle rocking of the ship, to let his exhaustion win and fall back into blissful sleep - 

But he can’t. The sailor in Zuko forbids it. He has responsibilities. Duties to his ship and his crew. And the mission. Always the mission. So, Zuko reluctantly untangles himself from the familiar tea and smoke smell of Uncle’s blankets and hauls his sorry carcass out of bed.

He leaves Uncle’s room and makes his way to his own quarters down the hall, bare feet stinging against the cold metal floor. He’s still wearing his comfy clothes, and briefly entertains the idea of just leaving them on, but they’re damp and rumpled and  _ reek _ of sweat - and despite the handful of semi-traitorous, highly un-royal things he’s done in the past two days, Zuko, son of Ozai, son of Ursa, is still a  _ prince.  _

So he dresses in fresh black underclothes, choosing one of his less involved sets of armor to go over the top, and pulls on soft leather boots - his favorite pair with the little gold dragons on the heel. 

He washes his face in the basin by his bed, the water a day old but still fresh enough to do the job, and ties his hair up into a respectable phoenix plume. Once he’s clean and dressed and ready for battle, Zuko takes a second to sit on the edge of his bed and take stock of himself as a whole. 

He feels… different. In a way that is fundamental yet unfamiliar. 

He can’t explain it other than he feels… fuller. Like he’s grown three inches overnight and is looking at the world from a higher point of view. There is an electric buzz that dances over his skin, and the air smells strange, kind of like the Fire Temple but also not. 

( A little blue stone rests against the bare skin of his collar, warm and thrumming and more precious than gold. It didn’t even occur to him to take it off. He runs his thumb over the surface and he sees a little girl’s smile, feels her gratitude and love.)

If things were normal, Zuko would just say he was sick and be done with it - people who fall (jump) into rivers get sick all the time. 

But things are not normal. Zuko’s worried things won’t ever be normal again. 

So, Zuko does what he always does when he feels like his whole life is falling apart - he picks himself up and goes to work. 

* * *

Zuko climbs the stairs to the deck and has to shield his eyes against the sudden change from dark to light.

He blinks, and takes in the sea and the waves, the crewman bustling about coiling rope and moving crates and just doing sailor things. The acrid oil-and-brine smell of the Wani works its magic and Zuko feels himself settle. 

He’s home. 

He spots Uncle Iroh standing near the bow with Lieutenant Jee, their heads bowed in conversation. Zuko makes sure his steps are loud against the deck as he strides over to them, and Uncle hears him and looks up, his face immediately softening when their eyes meet. 

“Ah! You’re awake!” Uncle meets him halfway and cups his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. He’s hiding it well, but Zuko sees the worried crease at the corners of his mouth, the dark tinge under his eyes. “How are you feeling, Prince Zuko?” 

_ Fucking weird _ , he doesn’t say. His head hurts, Shadows flicker in the corners of his vision and there are things being whispered in his ear that might as well be shouts for how much they beat against Zuko’s brain.

“Rested.” Zuko says, and it’s only a half-lie. 

“I am glad to hear it,” Uncle says with a smile. “You slept through yesterday afternoon and into the night. The crew was worried.”  _ I was worried.  _ “It’s reassuring to know you’re feeling better.” 

“Better” is not the word he’d use. 

“Lieutenant.” Zuko addresses Jee who stands at rest over Uncle’s shoulder. “What is the status of my ship?” 

“We’ve refuelled and resupplied per your orders, sir.” Jee says, with only half his usual undercurrent of ‘I can’t believe this child outranks me.’ Zuko must really look like shit. “We’re ready to move out on your command.” 

“Good. Tell the crew to make ready for departure. We set sail in an hour.”

“Aye, sir.” Jee bows, and goes to carry out his orders. 

“Are you sure you wish to depart so soon, Prince Zuko?” Uncle asks, frowning. “It wouldn’t hurt to wait another day or two. There is no shame in taking time to rest.”

“I’m sure.” Zuko says. “The quicker we’re out to sea, the better.” 

The quicker he gets away from this stretch of Earth the better. 

“At least have something to eat first.” Uncle reasons. “You can’t go from dead asleep to terrorizing the crew without  _ something _ in your stomach. Why don’t you accompany me down the galley and we can have the cook whip something up for you?” 

“ _ No _ .” Zuko says firmly. “I need to tend to my ship. I can eat later.” Truthfully, he just wants to be outside. The sky is blue and the air is fresh and Zuko missed it so much while he was asleep. 

“Counter-offer,” Uncle says. “Crewman Shin!” He calls a nearby officer. 

Crewman Shin stands from where he’s hammering in a loose bolt in the railing and salutes. “Yes sir?” 

“Would you be opposed to fetching two lunches from the galley for my nephew and I? So we can enjoy a nice meal in the sun?”

“Not at all, General.” Crewman Shin says with a bow. 

“Also, a blanket from my room. Oh, and my tea set - the jade one with the little frogs on it.” 

“Of course, General.” 

“There.” Uncle says to Zuko. “I’ve brought the food to you. Will you promise to eat it, or do you insist on starving to death?” 

Zuko grits his teeth and spits out a reluctant “fine”, then storms away before Uncle can speak, eager to ready his ship for getting the fuck out out of here. 

He spends the next half hour walking the deck and getting report from the crewman on the state of various repairs, and then spends another plotting their future course with the helmsman up above.

He feels Uncle’s eyes on him the entire time, watching, quietly fretting, but Zuko ignores him, too busy letting himself fall into the security of routine. 

Zuko is back on deck when Shin returns balancing two trays, one with the tea set, the other with two bowls of curry and some bread, a familiar red blanket draped over his arm. Uncle takes the trays and asks Shin to spread out the blanket, which he does.

Uncle sits down on the blanket with an  _ oof,  _ then looks up at Zuko and pats the spot next to him in clear invitation. Zuko rolls his eyes but sits, maintaining perfect seiza even when Uncle doesn’t. Uncle grins and holds out a steaming plate piled high with rice and sauce and bread, and Zuko accepts it with all the bored dignity he can muster. 

(Zuko can endure this if it makes Uncle happy. He’s made him worry. He hates when he does that.)

The curry is good. It’s fresh-made and savory and it fills Zuko’s nose with spice. It’s only when the first bite hits him that he realizes how  _ hungry _ he is, and he has to stop himself from shoveling the whole thing into his mouth like a heathen. 

Beside him, Uncle makes a deeply contented noise. 

“It’s been so long since we’ve had a picnic, nephew.” He says. “We should do this more often!” 

“This isn’t a picnic.” Zuko grumbles. He takes another bite. 

“We have our lunch.” Uncle counters. “We have a blanket. We’re outside on a  _ beautiful _ day. What else would you call it?” 

“An interruption.” Zuko grumbles, but Uncle just laughs and pats his shoulder. They sit together and eat and Zuko hungrily absorbs the sunlight into his skin. Despite everything it feels… nice. Zuko’s not used to things being nice. 

Then Uncle has to go and ruin it. 

“So, what’s our plan for going after the Avatar?” 

Zuko chokes on a spoonful of curry and it sends him into a coughing fit. Uncle pats his back.

“What?” He rasps once he has his voice back. 

“Perhaps I forgot to mention.” Uncle hums, stroking his beard. “It seems the Avatar has escaped his imprisonment in Pohuai Stronghold. They say he was aided by a single intruder. A masked swordsman they’re calling ‘the Blue Spirit.’ It’s all quite exciting.” 

“...I see.” Zuko says slowly.  _ Don’t panic. Don’t panic. He’ll know if you panic.  _ “How... unfortunate.” 

“Oh yes. This truly is a sad day for the Fire Nation.” Uncle says ‘sad day’ the way other people say ‘they were out of pig-chicken eggs.’ “Of course Admiral Zhao must be disappointed. I hope the Fire Lord isn’t too hard on him, I’m sure he tried his best.” 

Zuko hides a snort behind a cough, but can’t hide the self-satisfied smirk that follows. He hopes Uncle sees it as just his usual level of Zhao-adjacent disdain rather than an admission of guilt.

“So are we?” Uncle prompts. 

“Are we what?” 

“Going after the Avatar?” 

“Of course we are!” Zuko snaps. As if there was any other option. 

“Peace, nephew, it was just a question. I just thought you might want to take some time off, seeing as you decided to go missing for two days.” 

“I didn’t  _ go missing.”  _ Zuko says. “I was just… on a walk.” 

“A walk.” 

“Yes.” 

“For _ two days _ ?” 

“...It was a long walk.” 

“I see. Funny thing about long walks, they tend to be eventful. Did anything…  _ eventful _ happen on your  _ long walk?”  _

_ Yes,  _ Zuko thinks. 

And fuck, in that moment he wants nothing more than to tell Uncle the truth. He’s a balloon of secrets full to bursting, and something in him  _ hurts  _ in a way he can’t describe. Uncle would know what to do, he always does, and Zuko’s so close to blurting it all out, to letting the whole sorry tale unfold between them, damn the consequences. 

But.

Zuko really doesn’t want to explain the convoluted reasoning behind his attack on Pohuai, and he really  _ really _ doesn’t want to explain the whole debacle with Duri and Biyu (was that what the village was called? He doesn’t remember, but the name tastes right on his tongue) or to try and put into words the singularly uncomfortable experience of being called ‘Spirit.’ 

So he says “No.” and leaves it at that. 

The silence builds. Uncle’s kind eyes bore into his cheek and Zuko swallows his guilt. 

“...I see.” Uncle sighs after a long minute. “Forgive me, nephew, I didn't mean to pry.” 

“...It’s fine.” Zuko mutters.  _ He’s disappointed.  _ He thinks.  _ I’ve disappointed him.  _

Uncle puts a hand on his shoulder and it is warm. “Nephew.” He says, gently forcing Zuko to meet his gaze. “I don’t acknowledge this as often as I should, but you are already a fine young man. You’re sixteen now, old enough to make your own decisions, to follow your own path. But know that you do not always have to walk it alone. I will be there to support you, whatever it is you choose to do.”

Zuko’s chest feels tight. His eyes sting. 

“I know, Uncle.” 

Above them, a solitary sea-raven circles and keens, and Zuko finds something heart-achingly familiar in the shape of its lonely shadow against the sky. 

(Blue wings. Words in his ear that he can’t remember but knows are important.) 

“Ah, your plate is empty, let me fill it for you.” Uncle plucks Zuko’s half-full plate from his hands and spoons some of his own curry onto it. There’s more there now than Zuko could ever hope to finish. “Good food is good for the soul, nephew. I often find my troubles are made lighter by a nice hearty meal.”

Zuko snorts. “Not everything can be fixed with food, Uncle.” 

Uncle laughs. 

“Nonsense. Have some more bread.”

* * *

Iroh is not ashamed to admit that he’s trying to feed his nephew. 

The poor child is so  _ skinny,  _ all muscle and rage and no body fat to speak of. Children should be plump and happy. Iroh can’t remember the last time Zuko was either of those things. 

His nephew is strangely quiet beside him. Not the same terrifying level of silence as yesterday, thank Agni, but still. Zuko holds himself like he’s trying not to run, knuckles white and face pale with eyes that glint bronze instead of gold. His hand keeps drifting up to his throat, fingers brushing over his collar in a strange habit that Iroh has never seen before. 

He’s stressed. And Iroh is very stressed, so he pours himself a cup of tea, the crew knows how he likes it, and then one for his nephew. 

Zuko doesn’t take it, but the wafting smell of jasmine must offer some comfort because something loosens in his shoulders, some of the tense energy dissipating.

Iroh takes responsibility for some of that tenseness. He should have known better than to push. Zuko can stonewall better than an Earth Kingdom soldier, and has the stubbornness to match. 

All Iroh can hope for now is that Zuko will come to him if things start to go south (which they tend to do, Spirits bless him but his nephew is as unlucky as they come), and that there will still be enough time to salvage the situation. 

In the meantime, Zuko needs something to keep himself distracted. If he’s distracted, he can’t get into mischief. 

And Iroh has the perfect thing for it. 

“Well, nephew,” Iroh begins. “This has been a lovely picnic -” 

“Not a picnic.” Zuko mutters. 

“ - And I know you have a ship to launch, and I have a cup of tea to finish. But if it’s not too much trouble I have a favor to ask.” 

Zuko frowns in suspicion. “...What is it?” 

“Lately, it feels as if I’ve become rusty on some of the basic bending katas. It’s not surprising, I have let myself go a tiny bit. If you can spare the time, would you mind practicing with me? I don’t want to lose my touch.” 

“Uncle,” Zuko deadpans. “I saw you use the Breath of the Dragon to scare off a pelican-gull last week.” 

“It took my cookie!” Iroh defends. 

Zuko groans, but Iroh sees the smile it hides and he knows he’s won. 

“Fine.” Zuko stands. “Later, though. When I’m not busy.” 

Iroh resists the very un-princely urge to fist pump. 

“Thank you, nephew, you are doing this old man a great kindness.” 

Zuko rolls his eyes and says something like “not even that old”, and Iroh takes his victory with staggering relief and looks forward to putting his boy through his paces.

* * *

The Wani pulls into port late that afternoon when the sky is just starting to smear from blue into orange. Zuko’s stretched it as far as he could, but even he admits that he’s exhausted every possible task he could be doing (he even tried to help with laundry,  _ laundry _ , the crewman on duty had looked ready to faint) and resigns himself to baby-bending with Uncle. 

He changes into short sleeves and meets Uncle on deck. The old Dragon looks unfairly pleased. 

“Just the basics, Prince Zuko.” Uncle says like he’s trying to reassure him. “I’m not as spry as I used to be.” 

Zuko snorts, and settles himself into the first kata with his hands raised. Uncle grins and does the same. Fire ignites between them, and they begin. 

For the first time in a long time, Zuko truly finds clarity in his firebending. 

He and Uncle run through the basic katas for hours and hours, losing themselves in form and movement and stance. The air sizzles with heat, fuelled by the late-afternoon sun that shines unobscured in the sky, and Zuko is mortified to realize that he’s enjoying himself. 

That he’s having… fun. 

There is no urgency to this task. No life-or-death battle, no palace Master stood over him with a stick and a scowl. It’s just Zuko and Uncle, bending together because they can. 

It feels a little like how things were. When Uncle was home from the war and he, Zuko, and Lu Ten would go to the old garden behind the palace barracks and throw fire at each other, spending whole afternoons making up games and goofing around for no other reason than it made them all smile. 

(Father always disapproved of those times, because of course he did.  _ Don’t waste your time on useless things.  _ He’d say.  _ Haven’t you shamed this family enough?)  _

At some point, Uncle stops to lean against the rail and rub his back, and Zuko is left to continue the dance alone. 

Zuko aches for his swords. He wants to see them arc with flame, wants to extend his senses over the steel. He’s a swordsman as much as he’s a bender, and he never feels as whole as he does when his Fire and his Blade are one. 

Zuko works through his fundamentals kata by kata until he’s drenched with sweat and twilight throws its sparkles across the water. This is Zuko’s favorite time of day, which he’s always thought was strange. Firebenders rise with the sun, but Zuko loves the space between Agni’s set and the Moon’s rise, when the sky belongs to both of them and time seems to stop. 

Uncle offers him a towel and he takes it gratefully, wiping himself down. 

“Well done, nephew.” Uncle smiles. “I can safely say that you have mastered your basics. Your form is impeccable.” 

Zuko turns to look at the water so Uncle can’t see the redness in his cheeks. 

“I have a good teacher.” He murmurs. 

“Hm? Did you say something?” 

“Nothing.” 

Zuko feels refreshed by his workout in a way that he wasn’t by sleep, loose-limbed and warm, some of the strange energy that’s been swirling around inside him since this morning having burned away. He stretches and feels his back pop. 

“It’s getting dark.” Uncle says. “As enjoyable as this has been, nephew,” he yawns, “I'm  _ tired _ .” He sniffs his arm. “And smelly. I’m going to have a bath and turn in for the night. What about you?” 

(For a moment something blue flutters in the corner of his eye, then disappears as quickly as it came.) 

“I think I’ll turn in, too.” He says. “It’s been... a long day.” 

“Good man.” Uncle says, turning to head below. Zuko follows. “I wonder what’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

* * *

Over the next week, the Wani winds her way down the coast, making port every few days to resupply and gather what information can be gleaned from sketchy traders and even sketchier port officials. It’s business as usual, for all intents and purposes. Like Puohai and the madness that followed never happened, the memory of it half-remembered like morning mist across the water. And Zuko would let it all evaporate like mist if he could. 

But lately he’s noticed something… strange. 

There’s a voice in his head. Or… voices? Maybe? Sometimes it feels like just the one, but then he’ll turn his head just so, or catch the light out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly he feels like he’s surrounded by a blanket of sound. Men, women, children, their words a thunderous whisper in his ear - and  _ familiar _ , so familiar, yet foreign all the same. Once or twice he finds himself so lost in the tide of their song that he forgets where is he is, only to snap to attention when someone asks him a question, or smacks his face into a wall, or, in one memorable instance, is stopped from toppling ass-over-teakettle down the steps to the galley by Uncle’s firm and worried hand on his elbow. 

The crew keep sending him these half-concerned  _ looks _ . Zuko’s skin crawls with the weight of them. 

So, he does his best to ignore it, to block out the voices with training and tracking and meditation. He even chokes down one of his Uncle’s nasty calming teas, which he promptly spits out over the side railing, to his Uncle’s dismay. Nothing helps. 

He works and he trains and he itches and itches until suddenly he can’t stand to itch a single second more. The need to get out burns through him like a forest fire, and so when the Wani docks at a sizable colony port ringed by a sprawling forest, Zuko makes his plans. 

He doesn’t escape the ship until night has truly fallen. 

There is no moon in the sky tonight. Zuko is just one thread in the tapestry of darkness that cloaks the land. 

He silently slips from the deck of the Wani to the pier below, and from there, takes to the rooftops, leaping gracefully from house to house until he reaches the edge of the forest. 

A mile or so from the harbor town he finds a clearing among the trees that he decides is far enough away from people that he won’t be distrubed. Zuko slides his dao out of their sheath in one smooth motion and does a few practice swings, then just like with his bending, starts in on the basic forms and goes from there. 

The metal sings. 

He slashes and parries, crossing blades with invisible enemies and pretending to cut them down.

He may not be a master swordsmen, but the dao are  _ his _ in a way the flames never were. He chose the steel, picked them out from among hundreds of weapons in Master Piandao’s armory. It’s only been a week, but he missed his swords fiercely, and having them in his hands again is pure bliss. The buzzing in his brain quiets, and Zuko truly starts to feel like himself again. 

Zuko hadn’t really had time to savor them the last time they were needed. He’d been too busy trying not to be impaled. 

He’d also been wearing a very different face. Different enough to warrant a new name. 

The Blue Spirit. 

Ha. 

He even has a wanted poster. 

He wonders if someone called him that on purpose because they’d seen the play the mask was from, or if it was just coincidence. Either way, Zuko kind of likes the title. It makes him sound fierce and mysterious. 

He remembers it so clearly - the night he saved the Avatar. He remembers finding the stupid monk bound in chains (and what a sin, something in him cries, to keep the Air in a cage) and slicing through them with his dao. 

He remembers the seamless way they fought together, like they’d rehearsed it or something. Blade and Bridge, working toward a common goal. 

Most of all, though, Zuko remembers the fit of the mask over his face, the chaotic high of becoming another person, another  _ being,  _ one that he  _ chose _ to be instead of something that was forced upon him.

If he pictures it in his mind, he can almost feel the brush of painted wood on his cheeks, the squeeze of ribbons tying themselves in a tight bow around his head. He imagines the mask taking shape over his features, the white grin of the mouth stretching over his lips, the curve of the eyes covering up his scar. 

His whole face tingles. There are bubbles on his skin. 

And then, suddenly, the mask is  _ there _ . Materializing perfectly placed onto his face with a  _ pop  _ and a flash of blue.

Time grinds to a halt. 

Zuko reaches up and taps the wood with two fingers. It doesn’t bite, doesn’t burst into flames. In fact, it hardly feels like anything at all. The breeze still tickles his chin, and when he breathes the sweet scent of the forest still washes over him.

The mask of the Blue Spirit weighs absolutely nothing. 

It and Zuko are one. Two halves of the same whole. 

Zuko has a split second to have this thought before the world explodes into  _ color _ . 

Rainbow tendrils of energy snake up tree trunks and thread themselves through the canopy. An endless web of threads, in every shade imaginable and more, connecting, intertwining, weaving together existence as a whole.

Each living thing pulses with light, it’s own unique flavor of life, and Zuko is left breathless and awed. 

It’s beautiful. 

Under his shirt something buzzes, and it pulls his attention away from the web. A tiny blue light shines through the cloth, and he pulls out Duri’s necklace, cupping it in his palm. It seems to… float a little. Like it’s aware of gravity but doesn’t really care. 

It pulses at him, warm and happy, and Zuko can’t help but smile.

“Hello again.” He says. “I’ve been thinking about you.” 

The blue of the quartz bleeds into his hand like ink, and it sinks slowly into his palm, lodging itself there like a tick. Images begin to pour into Zuko’s mind, offered to him like a gift by the brilliant little stone. 

Biyu. His village. And people, ah, he knows these people. They’re the ones that chose him. He is theirs and they are his. Even now, some of them sit before a tiny shrine and send him their prayers. He can hear them so clearly, like music, and he wonders why he couldn’t before. 

_ “Blue Spirit, please let my baby be born healthy.” _

_ “Protect my son in battle, Blue Spirit, don’t let him fall.”  _

_ “Let spring come soon, Master Spirit, let the crops grow big and tall.”  _

_ “Save us from the Fire Nation, oh Spirit of Blue. Don’t let us burn.”  _

_ Never.  _ The Blue Spirit thinks, for he is Fire and he would never let that happen. 

He is a Flame that twists and flickers and surges. 

He is the campfire that lights the dark and keeps the soldiers warm, the brushfire that clears away the dead things and makes way for new growth. He is the lamplight that illuminates the traveler’s path, and he is young and old and eternal.

The Blue Spirit is many things. 

There are offerings before his shrine, and he catalogs each one and drinks in their essence, the love-care-devotion poured into each one of them by his people. They give him power, feeding his Flame and making him stronger, anchoring him more to the Earth. 

The more he takes, the more he loses himself to the music. He lets himself drift. He wants to be lost. He feels so peaceful, so at home, in a way he never has, not even Before when he lived in a palace and wore human skin. 

He belongs there, in that holy place, with those shiny people, and he wants so desperately to  _ stay _ , it’s all he’s ever wanted - 

But something stops him. A voice in the music that doesn’t match. 

_ Come back, Little Flame.  _ It calls.  _ Come back from the Other World. Do not lose yourself to the music, child. Do not fade away.  _

Zuko gasps back into himself and rips the mask off his face, tossing it into the undergrowth. All at once the colors disappear, and he heaves, taking deep gulping breaths as he gets used to the feeling of being  _ singular _ once more. 

In the tall grass, the mask of the Blue Spirit glows like a coal. 

Zuko stands there and gapes at it, for far longer than he probably should, and tries to wrap his head around what in the hell just happened.

He hadn’t brought the mask with him tonight on purpose, leaving it safely tucked away under his bed with the rest of his secret belongings. (It’d be really fucking suspicious if the Blue Spirit showed up in _ two _ places where his ship was known to be docked.)

But somehow, the damn thing had found its way  _ here _ . Latching on to people’s faces and making them feel safe and happy. 

All Zuko feels now is cold and afraid, his thoughts spiraling out of control as anxiety slithers its way up his spine. 

Did he just get possessed? Is that what happened? 

Is there a real Blue Spirit somewhere that’s vengeful because Zuko stole their Name? 

It would make sense. He pretended to be something he wasn’t, back in Biyu. He wore the skin of a Spirit and passed its noble voice off as his own. And he also did...  _ something _ ... with his Fire. Something no human had any business doing but that he can’t articulate because it makes his brain go fuzzy. 

(His palms itch.) 

This must be his punishment. To be slowly driven crazy by a haunted fucking prop. 

“What the fuck.” Zuko whispers. “What the fucking fuck.” He turns his eyes to the sky, to the fading splash of color on the horizon where Agni has laid Himself to rest. The Great Spirit probably can’t hear him anymore, but Zuko still whispers “What’s wrong with me?” to himself, if no one else. 

He’s not a religious person, not really. But tonight he asks, begs, for an answer to his prayer.

* * *

Zuko returns to the ship quickly following the…  _ incident _ . He uses the ramp instead of the portholes because 1) he is not  _ sneaking back _ , he’s  _ returning _ , and 2) the portholes are all being oiled and polished and he doesn’t want chemical stains on his clothes. 

He still ducks the guards on watch because even though he’s the commander of the Wani and thus under no obligation to answer questions, it would still be extremely awkward to be caught (sneaking)  _ returning _ home this late. 

Under his clothes, a mask that shouldn’t be there digs into his stomach, sharp as a knife. 

Uncle is already asleep when he gets back to their hall, the light under his door extinguished. It makes Zuko feel guilty and relieved. Uncle is already worried about him, he doesn’t need any more shit to add to the pile. 

Zuko slips back into his room and replaces his swords on the wall. He’ll polish them later, when he’s not still freaking the fuck out. Then, he checks the hidden compartment under his bed where he keeps the mask and, surprise surprise, finds it empty. 

Wonderful. 

Zuko all but throws the mask back into the compartment and slams his mattress down with extreme prejudice. He sits down hard and hopes all the food Uncle made him eat today has made him fat so that he  _ crushes  _ the stupid thing under his ass.

He then remembers  _ another _ potentially dangerous item and fishes the quartz out of his shirt, dangling the little stone in front of his eyes. He hasn’t forgotten what it did, what it made him  _ see.  _

“Are you cursed too?” He asks, giving it a little shake. It doesn’t answer him. Typical. “If you are, you have to tell me. That’s how it works.” 

A thought occurs to him. 

“Am  _ I  _ cursed?” The stone pulses like it’s laughing at him, the sensation fizzing against Zuko’s fingertips. Zuko resists the urge to huck it into the ocean. 

He doesn’t, though. The thought alone makes him sick.

It goes back to resting against his chest and thrums in what can only be satisfaction. 

Zuko groans and drops his head into his hands. “Agni’s sweaty balls.” He mutters. “This is  _ so fucked.”  _

“My my, you’ve got quite the mouth.” 

Zuko’s head snaps up and he jumps to his feet, flames in his hands. “Who’s there?” He demands. “Show yourself!” 

“Bossy bossy. You Fire Spirits. So quick-tempered.” Zuko follows the sound to the source and what he sees... confuses him. A blue sparrowkeet sits perched on top of his desk, keen black eyes darting about as they take in the room. 

Zuko stares. He can’t help it. 

The sparrowkeet manages to look unimpressed. 

“Well?” It chirps. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” 

“Um,” Zuko manages. 

The sparrowkeet sighs. 

“I suppose I’ll go first then.” The sparrowkeet takes flight and lands on Zuko’s outstretched hand, tiny claws leaving pinpricks on his wrist. “My name is Sae.” It spreads its wings and dips into a tiny yet regal bow. “I’ve come to ask for your help, Blue Spirit.” 

Zuko’s entire world is shattered by two words. 

One name.

“...What?” He squeaks. 

And then he passes out. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS!!! What is up party people it's me! I'm alive! Welcome back to madness. I cannot believe the repletion this fit has gotten, it is honestly astounding, and I'm so thankful for everyone who has commented on/bookmarked this work! This chapter is an Iron POV, and it's kinda short, which sucks, I know, but life has kinda been really shitty right now? So this is what I've got. Also I've gone back and tinkered with some stuff in the first two chapters, edited some mistakes, and beefed up some stuff, especially in the 2nd chapter. The next chapter is half-written, so I promise it will be here a lot quicker than this one took. Thanks again to everyone, let me know what you think of this chapter!! 
> 
> \- Mikki
> 
> (PS Come bother me on tumblr if you want, @mikkioftheanbu.tumblr.com. My blog is trash and so am I)

Twenty three minutes after blowing out his red prayer candles, and after taking one last bitter sip of his over-steeped evening tea, Iroh finally hears it; the traitorous squeak of an under-oiled hinge, followed by the near-silent slide of footsteps in the hallway. Whoever it is is in quite the hurry. Iroh can sympathize. An old general like him was made for mud and dirt, Earth, for better or for worse, and almost three years later he’s still unaccustomed to the exquisite claustrophobia of a ship at sea. 

Iroh peeks, because of course he does, opening his door the barest sliver and taking in the sight of a figure all in black slinking silently down the corridor and up onto the deck. 

He chuckles. The poor boy probably thinks he’s being sneaky. Bless him. 

It’s honestly a relief, Iroh thinks as he’s pulling on his coat, for Zuko to be doing something as mundanely teenage as sneaking out. Childhood burned through him so quickly, for Zuko, most of the small rebellious milestones that other youngsters meet (drinking, carriage-crashing, piercings in regrettable places) never came to pass. Other parents would probably be grateful to have such an eerily well-behaved child as Iroh’s nephew, but Iroh has always wished Zuko would be a little...  _ freer  _ with himself. 

When Iroh was his age, he had the kind of energy buzzing beneath his skin that could only be sated with mischief, and he split his time between sneaking sips of wine at banquets and awkwardly flirting with the doe-eyed daughters of every nobleman at court. 

Zuko, by contrast, is at war, chasing a promise made in bad faith to a man who never loved him, that was more than likely intended to get him killed. Instead of youthful revelry, he pours over sea charts and port gossip, forgoing the kind of food and sleep a young man his age requires, endlessly scouring the Earth Kingdom for the Avatar, for his father’s prize. 

So. Sneaking out. Wonderful. 

Iroh still worries, because of course he does. Zuko is his most beloved nephew in all the world, and if anything happened to him Iroh would kill a not insignificant number of people and then himself. But he meant what he said about letting Zuko have his secrets, so as much as he would like to, he does not follow where he nephew goes. 

(Lu Ten grew restless once, as crown princes with famous fathers are wont to do. His restlessness led him to the battlefield, which in turn led to the greatest tragedy of Iroh’s life.) 

The night guard bows to him as he makes his way down the gangplank, it is no secret that he favors evening strolls, and he tucks his hands into the sleeves of his long cloak to shield them from the cold. Iroh heads into town, taking his time so as to thoroughly enjoy the fresh air. The windows of the buildings glow softly with lamplight and the air smells heavily of tavern spice and coal smoke, and eventually Iroh finds himself in front of a humble tea shop with a lotus motif carved into its ancient double doors. 

Iroh knows this particular establishment well. He stayed here for a time after Ba Sing Se refused to fall, after his Lu Ten… well,  _ after.  _ He’d vomited his grief into the floorboards of it’s tiny upstairs bedroom, had contemplated hanging himself whilst peeling potatoes in the grubby little kitchen. It was here he was introduced to the Lotus Gambit, and here he took his first steps on the winding road toward redemption. The Madam of the Crooked Lotus is a dear old friend. And she makes a truly stupendous cup of tea. 

Iroh enters the shop and is hit with a thousand flavors of smell all at once, so many that even his expert nose cannot pick them all apart. The tea hall is unusually crowded for this time of night, the small waitstaff answering shouts for snacks tea all while darting between tables holding trays stacked precariously high with clay pots and cups. He finds a seat in the corner and orders ginger tea from a gangly teenage waiter, asking politely if he would alert the owner to his presence. The waiter gives him a strange look, but he agrees, and Iroh settles in to wait. It takes awhile for the Madam to make an appearance, but the tea is fragrant and the bustle of the other customers is soothing, so Iroh doesn’t mind. 

The owner of the Crooked Lotus is a stout woman whose hair is black as pitch, save for a long silver streak that winds its way through her tall braid. She carries herself like a forgewoman, her gaze always on the steel before her, waiting for the perfect time to  _ strike.  _ When she spies Iroh at his table in the corner after the watier points him out, she actually  _ rolls her eyes _ , to his absolute delight, before barking orders at her employees and shedding her apron with prejudice. She stomps over and plunks down in the empty seat across from him, folding one leg over the other. 

“I hope you don’t expect me to rehash the whole ‘lotus gambit’ spiel.” The woman sneers. “Because as you can see, the pai sho board is gone, it’s  _ late, _ and I’m fucking  _ tired _ , Iroh.” 

Iroh blinks. “What happened to your board?” He asks. 

“Sold it.” She says bluntly. “To some Fire noble a few winters back. Paid a damn fortune for it, too. Bought myself a brand new copper boiler, the kind you rich types have on your fancy ships.” 

Iroh smirks. He likes smirking. He never gets to smirk on the  _ Wani _ . “Just so we’re clear, this is the same pai sho set that has been passed down through the order for generations - the one that marks this building as a sacred house of knowledge safe haven to our kin?” 

“Oh spare me the speech.” The woman scoffs. “It was an eyesore and it was taking up space.” 

“Forgive me, the  _ ancient relic  _ upon which the code that has ensured the security of the White Lotus since time immemorium was  _ taking up space?”  _

“If someone needs to find me, they find me. With or without Spirits-damned  _ riddles. _ Case-in-point,  _ you.  _ And you know how much I hate pai sho.”

“Pai sho is a wonderful game!” 

“No, pai sho is  _ boring  _ -”

“- Stimulating!” 

“-  _ and _ hard to play -” 

“ -  _ Tactical.”  _

“- and I don’t know why the Founders even chose it in the first place. One wonders how they ever had time for peace and unity and all that garbage when it takes all fucking day to play a single fucking game!” 

Iroh doesn’t try to hold in his laughter, throwing his head back and slapping the table with mirth. 

The owner snorts, and her face eases into a soft yet crooked smile. “How are you, Iroh?” 

Iroh smiles back. “I am very well, Madam Xiao, and yourself?” 

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Madam Xiao crosses her arms and frowns. “What with the deluge of uninvited guests that keep darkening my door.” 

“Uninvited?” Iroh cries. “The last time I was here you told me that I was always welcome!” 

“Last time you brought booze. And yet here you are, booze-less before me. I’ve half a mind to kick you out right this second.” 

“Careful, Agent Xiao, that sounds like treason.” Iroh says, eyes twinkling. 

“Will you sanction me then, oh wise and powerful Grand Lotus?”

“Lucky for you, kind Madam,” Iroh smiles, “I’m not here in an official capacity. I am merely paying a visit to an old and treasured friend, nothing more.” 

“Ha!” Scoffs Madam Xiao. “I don’t believe you. Cut the crap you old dragon, why are you really here?” 

Iroh pouts, mock-hurt. “Can’t two people have a conversation without one of them accusing the other of subterfuge?”

“No.” 

Iroh laughs, belly deep. He really does adore this woman. 

“Very well.” He says. “You’ve caught me. Sadly, there is a reason for my visit. A matter into which I had hoped you might offer insight.” Madam Xiao leans back in her chair, taking a pair of spark rocks and a short pipe out of her sleeve and lighting it with a _ click.  _

She takes a deep drag, then exhales a cloud of blue-black smoke. Her eyes are keener than any dragon’s. “Depends.” She says at length. “What do you want to know?” 

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Avatar’s recent escape from Puohai Stronghold.” Iroh begins. 

Madam Xiao snorts. “Who fucking hasn’t? The news was everywhere. Admiral Zhao - he’s a fucking  _ Admiral _ now, can you believe it? - was spitting blood.” She takes another long drag of her pipe. Blows out. “But you don’t need me to tell you that,  _ General. _ What’s this really about?” 

“I am curious about the culprit behind the Avatar’s rescue.” Iroh sips his tea, finds it lukewarm, and gently reheats it between his hands. “You could say I have a…  _ personal  _ interest in knowing what kind of man would risk his life to rescue a single child from captivity. Even if that child is the Bridge Between Worlds.” 

“Hm.” Madam Xiao squints suspiciously, searching Iroh’s guileless face for true intentions. “Unfortunately for your ‘curiosity’, there’s actually very little information about him. My contacts at Puohai were surprisingly...  _ vague _ in their report about the whole incident.”

“I don’t need much. Just a description will do.”

“Well, physically, they said he was on the shorter side, skinny, but moved as fast as an eel-hound. Said he carried a set of dao blades with gold inlays on the handles, and that he wore a painted mask.” 

“What sort of mask?” 

“A fanged blue devil. I guess that’s why they’re calling him the ‘Blue Spirit.’” 

_ He always did love that play,  _ Iroh thinks, hiding a smile behind the rim of his teacup.  _ It probably reminds him of his mother _ . Where under Agni’s all-seeing eye did he get the mask, is Iroh’s question. Did he smuggle it onto the Wani when no one was looking? It’s just childish enough that the thought has Iroh biting back a chuckle. 

“Any clues as to his identity?” Iroh asks. 

“Not at the moment.” Says Madam Xiao. “Whoever this guy is, he’s good. The whole fucking Fire Army is after him, and so far they’ve turned up squat. Zhao even put a whole company of Yuyan on the case. Still nothing. He’s a damn ghost. The best they could do was track him to some backwater Earth Kingdom town before the trail went cold.” 

“Hm, impressive.” Iroh says, even as his shoulders unclench and a wave of relief sweeps through him. He expected as much, this is  _ his  _ nephew they’re talking about, but it’s still nice to hear that Zuko was so capable in covering his tracks. Of course, Iroh is retroactively horrified that his boy did something as suicidally reckless as break into the most secure stronghold in the occupied territories, to save the life of his self-proclaimed  _ nemesis _ . And they will be having  _ words _ about it eventually, make no mistake. But for now, Iroh reasons, a little rebellion is good. Healthy even.

Zuko scaling a fortified building in the dead of night with swords strapped to his back is hardly the most worrying thing he could be doing. 

Madam Xiao cocks an eyebrow at whatever emotion is on his face. “Indeed. It’s not every day the Fire Army puts all their resources into hunting down a single enemy. Excluding Avatars.” She takes a pointed puff of her pipe. “Anyone I know?” 

Iroh winces. “Not… personally.” 

It’s then that he notices how empty the teahouse has become. In fact, other than the gangly waiter, he and Madam Xiao are the only people left. Goodness, has it really gotten that late? Zuko is probably home by now. Iroh should return as well. “Well then, noble Madam,” he says, standing and slowly stretching out the kinks in his back. “As always, I thank you for your time and your hospitality, but as you’ve mentioned it is getting late and I must take my leave.” 

“That’s it?” Says Madam Xiao sceptically. “You only wanted to hear about some daredevil punk going around stealing monks?”

Iroh puts his hand on his heart. “Of course not! I also wanted to partake of some of your delectable tea. And gaze upon your beautiful face.” Iroh drops a few coins on the table and is turning to leave when he hears -

“Sit down, Iroh.” Madam Xiao’s sharp voice rings out, making Iroh start at the sudden change in her tone. The Madam’s gaze is dark where it rests on the tip of her pipe. “You asked for my insight. I have yet to finish giving it.” 

Cautiously, and with no small amount of trepidation, Iroh complies. 

Madam Xiao is silent for a moment, then sighs and leans forward, meeting Iroh’s gaze intently. For the first time Iroh notices the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the wispy unkemptness of her hair, usually so impeccably braided. “... I wasn’t going to contact you until I had more information, but as long as you’re here you might as well know. There's movement in the Other World, Iroh.” 

Iroh’s stomach sours. So much for his good mood. “Are you certain?” He rasps. 

Madam Xiao nods. “There have been signs. Animals emerging early from their dens. Clouds in bizarre shapes. And this.” 

She takes a small package out of her sleeve and places it on the table between them. With hesitant fingers, Iroh reaches out and unwraps it, revealing a thick bundle of corded plants that seem to...  _ pulse _ against his senses, glowing softly with an otherworldly light.

“... Where did you get these?” 

“You remember that village I mentioned? The one where the Yuyan lost the Blue Spirit?” 

“Yes.” 

“One of my people found them growing along the riverbank there. And these aren’t the only ones. I’ve been getting reports from other agents all over the coast who’ve had similar findings.”

“...Spirit Wilds.” 

“Got it in one.” She carefully rewraps the bundle and returns it to her sleeve. 

“How long has this been going on?” Iroh asks gravely. 

“About a week, give or take.” 

“Why wasn’t I alerted?” 

“I told you. I was going to, I was just waiting until I had more intel.” Iroh gudgeingly accepts that this is true, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. Abruptly, Madam Xiao pushes back her chair and gets to her feet, gesturing for Iroh to follow her. 

“Gongyi!” She shouts over her shoulder. 

“What!?” The teenage waiter yells back. 

“I’m going out.” 

“What, now?” The teenager blinks. “It’s the middle of the night?” 

“Yup. Mind the shop.” She turns to Iroh. “There’s something else I want you to see.” 

Iroh swallows, but smiles through it. “By all means lead the way.” 

Madam Xiao leads Iroh out of the shop through the back kitchen door, which in turn opens onto a little dirt path that winds its way into the forest. The two follow the path for a few minutes until they come upon a tiny shrine, a simple stack of flat rocks adorned with talisman paper and Spirit charms carved in the shape of whatever local deity to whom the people of the town send their prayers. 

If Iroh didn’t know any better, he would say that it was abandoned. The faded plaque that leans against the stones, invoking the Names of Oma and Shu, is cracked and peeling, the calligraphy almost totally worn away. Green moss drapes over the stones, shiny with dew, and the whole shrine is overgrown and unkempt. tall grass growing around it in an almost perfect circle. Nestled among the grass are strange blue flowers whose petals catch the light and seem to glimmer, reflective like polished metal.

“My Grandson is the keeper here.” Madam Xiao breaks the silence. “He weeds and cleans everything once a week. All this shit sprouted practically overnight.” 

Iroh squats down to examine the shrine. “Have you ever seen flowers such as these?” He asks, cupping his hands around one of the blooms, very carefully not touching the sharp-looking petals. 

“Never.” Says Madam Xiao. 

“Neither have I. They are not of this world.” Cautiously, he runs his finger across the petals of one of the flowers. It doesn’t bite, but it shimmers oddly, like it’s upset about being susceptible to touch. 

“So it’s a Spirit then?” 

“Possibly.”

“Do you know which one?” 

“Not any that I am familiar with.” There are hundreds of Spirits, thousands even, that exist in the combined lore of the Mortal Realm. Memorizing all their Names and attributes would be a gargantuan task, and Iroh’s memory is good, but not that good. 

He stretches out with his energy, seeking the disturbance that Madam Xiao described. He can almost make it out, but it slips through his senses like an eel through a hole in a net. He chases it, far enough into the web of energy that he almost has to pull back for fear of losing himself among the threads, when he finally manages to extend himself enough to  _ touch _ \- 

Flames lick up his body, searing him, eating up his skin like paper. The Other World is loud in a way Iroh has never felt before, it’s voice an unstoppable tidal wave of emotion and sound. It bubbles up like laughter, it cuts like a scream. Iroh’s soul was not made for this, it stretches and strains against the pressure of it, so close to snapping, and it hurts hurts  _ hurts - _

Iroh severs the connection as fast as he can and is left reeling, holding onto Madam Xiao’s shoulder for dear life. She’s in his ear asking if he’s alright, asking what he felt, what he  _ saw.  _ He can’t answer, because he doesn’t  _ know _ . A presence like that… Iroh has never felt anything like it before. No minor Spirit could put forth such energy. 

And anything to do with the Great Spirits almost always spells disaster. 

“-- oh.  _ Iroh.  _ If you don’t answer me right this second I swear to Shu -” 

“Peace, Madam.” Iroh tries not to gasp. “I am alright. Just give me a moment.”

Madam Xiao bites her lip, but helps Iroh settle down onto the grass where he folds into his meditation pose, focusing all of his energy towards soothing the turbulent flow of his chi. 

He breathes. 

“It is a Spirit.” He says after a long moment. “An extremely powerful one.” He says after a long moment. 

Madam Xiao sucks in through her teeth. “I was afraid you’d say that. Is it a threat?” 

“Unclear. It hardly seems like coincidence that a Spirit as powerful as this should make itself known the same year the Avatar returns from the dead.” 

“Makes sense. Fuck, this is all we need right now, huh?” Madam Xiao swipes a hand through her hair, mussing up her braid even further. “I’ll alert my network. See if we can’t get to the bottom of this.”

“I advise caution.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” She rolls her eyes. “I’m aware of what the Spirits are like. And more importantly so are  _ you. _ ”

Iroh carefully unfolds his fist to keep his nails from biting into his palm. 

There are scars etched into every facet of his soul that can testify to what, exactly, the Spirits are  _ like _ . 

They return to the inn, plans for investigating the Unknown Spirit made. The sky is dark pitch above them, and Iroh feels the lateness of the hour in his bones. 

Their goodbye is muted and, as always, bittersweet. Madam Xiao makes him take a loaf of her lychee nut bread home with him, and then threatens to do him bodily harm if he doesn’t write. She grabs his hands in his, and they are as warm as a firebender’s, warmer even, because Iroh has felt them carding softly through his hair while wracked with fever, body sick with the taint of his grief. 

Iroh has much to think about in the wake of the night’s activities, so he takes the scenic route back to the ship, walking along the water with his hands folded pensively into his sleeves. He wonders if Zuko is home yet. He hopes he is, the knowledge that his nephew had been to a place touched by the Unknown Spirit settles heavily in his gut. Iroh thinks back to every strange thing Zuko has said or done since the morning Iroh found him. Catalogues every strangeness, every emotion out of place. 

It could be nothing. Or, Iroh might very well need to keep a closer eye on his nephew going forward. The Spirits are not to be trifled with, and Zuko is painfully young, susceptible in a way that Iroh and the other Masters are not. 

He will protect him. 

Or else he will see the whole world burn. 


End file.
